I shall not want

I can hear the strains of softly struck gongs and Tibetan singing bowls from within a monastery perched on a high plateau in Central Asia. The temple like structure is steeped in solemnity and the natural wood façade, at times, peeps through the clouds like a castle in a heavenly kingdom.

The surrounding plateau has green undulating slopes that are speckled with patches of rock.  I can see a small herd of sluggish mountain yak grazing. A brown yak suddenly looks up in expectation on hearing the sound of a gong. The yak is used to false alarms.

My vision is slightly blurred in the freezing cold but I see a Buddhist monk on the verandah of the monastery wearing a reddish ― brown garb. His garment defies the cold, and his tough mental attitude appears to make him almost immune to it. He murmurs a chant which also serves to help keep him warm.

He looks detached from earthly matters because he is in the middle of a ritual. His posture typifies a state of deep relaxation that is a prelude to beginning a meditation. I wish him the path of the “enlightened one.”

How I wish I were in his place though. But I am nothing but a poor shadow of that Buddhist monk in body and spirit. And yet, I find myself transposed high up on this Tibetan Plateau within climbing distance of a monastery.

Another five hundred steps or so and I should be staring through a window to the world. My vision and perspective is restricted though. All that I wish for is a token of wishful thinking.

A sharp mountain breeze makes my eyes water. I wipe away my tears with the back of my icy wrist and in the same motion stop my nose from following suit. All this while, I am possessed with but one thought: This is among the few places that one can categorize as “heaven on earth.”

The singing bowls and their echoing notes suffuse the rarified air some ten thousand feet below the highest peak on earth. Between this elevation and the top of Mt. Everest, there are few sounds that do not cause discord and the singing bowls from Buddhist monasteries make a blissful atmosphere.

This is in stark contrast to jarring of howling winds that shatter the peace of the mountain heights when accompanied by the screams of mountaineers hurtling down ravines and crevices but the scenario here is placid.

At this altitude, the sound of the singing bowls prevails. Tibetan singing bowls make music that resonates within the confines of my soul.

At the end of life’s journey there must be a singing bowl to usher in the next life. The gongs and singing bowls when played in unison have a touch of finality.

I can visualize the weather-beaten face of a stoic Tibetan Buddhist monk setting a guiding beacon for through a path lined with Tibetan music bowls. This is not a Gregorian chant or the music of Schronen.

But if there is a message for me I hope it is “ Nihil mihi deerit.”(…I shall not want!) <The Korea Times/Alan Saldanha>